


and I shall hear, though soft you tread above me

by biswholocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7207436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's funeral, John struggles to move forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and I shall hear, though soft you tread above me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancientreader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [and I shall hear, though soft you tread above me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7318186) by [Arina_Enko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arina_Enko/pseuds/Arina_Enko), [linafilin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linafilin/pseuds/linafilin)



> This story came out of a conversation about different ways to write a coffeeshop au. It's a bit angsty, but I ran out of time to write the incredibly sappy happy ending I was imagining. Hope you like it anyway, snarryfool, and please feel free to think of John and Sherlock back in 221b, snogging in an armchair. Title from a song by Frederick Weaverly.
> 
> For the translation - many thanks to linafilin! - you can read it on ao3 or on [ficbook](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4516156).

After the funeral, John’s limp comes back, more painful than ever. He studiously ignores the cane that he knows is gathering dust in his closet back at 221b and forces himself to walk, biting back the pain.

\-----------

“Well, whenever you feel ready, dear,” Mrs Hudson comforts. “You’re always welcome, you know.”

“Ta,” John says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t tell her that he doesn’t plan on coming back to Baker Street. Ever. The clothes he didn’t take with him to Harry’s, the linens, the shampoo sitting in the shower, all of it can be left to rot. The silence grows awkward over the line.

“John? Are you still there?”

He clears his throat. “Yes, sorry. I, um. I have to go now, Mrs Hudson. Sorry.”

He hangs up as she’s saying goodbye.

\-----------

Harry’s flat is cramped; any free space is littered with empty bottles or ashtrays. Harry goes to work, comes home, gets drunk, yells at the telly, totters down the hall to her bedroom and passes out until late the next morning. John sleeps on her couch; the cushions smell like beer and he rarely makes it more than a few hours before jolting awake, gasping and sweating.

Harry gives him sad looks, sometimes, late at night in the flickering glow of the telly. John wonders if he’s been screaming in his sleep.

After two weeks, he is itching for space. He jolts awake at half five, heart pounding, then showers. As he stands under the spray, watching the soap go down the drain, he keeps his mind carefully blank of the nightmare that woke him. Before six he’s dressed and out the door. The sky is grey, but not dark enough to threaten rain. After he picks a direction, he looks around him as he walks. The flats on Harry’s street are quiet, but as he walks farther from her secluded neighborhood the city around him begins to buzz with early-morning commuters. He walks and walks. His leg starts to ache after about fifteen minutes, but it takes another twenty, when the inside of his cheek has become tender from biting it, before he lets the pain win out. He spots a small coffee shop across the street and cuts across the street.

The scent of coffee beans and scones welcomes him in. He limps to a table in the back corner, next to the window, and sits with a sigh. He rubs his leg under the table and holds back a groan at the nerves that flare up at the touch.

“Can I get you something, sir?”

John looks up at the young server, blinking. “Yes, please,” he answers. “Coffee with a dash of milk, no sugar.”

“Coming right up,” the server says, then leaves. John leans his elbows on the table and rubs at his scratchy eyes. Sparks cross his vision, and he yawns, jaw popping. He’s running on three hours of sleep; the last time he’d felt this tired, it had been the end of a four-day case. He and...Well. _They_ had stopped for some brekkie on the way home, and John could barely eat his body was so exhausted.

_That was brilliant_ , John had told him over their meal.

_It was obvious,_ he had replied, waving off the compliment, but John could see his smile in the reflection of the window.

The clink of a cup on the table pulls him back to the present.

“Two pounds sixty,” the server says, so John digs out his wallet and gives them the money. The server thanks him with a smile and retreats. John pulls the cup toward him and stares down at the steam rising from the coffee. He takes a sip. The coffee leaves a trail of warmth down his throat, a bitter taste on his tongue.

He looks out at the street through the window, observing pedestrians. A man in a suit walks by quickly, weaving his way past the others. A woman and her child, laughing. Another sip, two, three of the coffee; John may have burnt his tongue. A teenager ducks into the coffee shop, bounces his leg while waiting for his drink, then hurries out once he has it. He orders from the counter, and John realises that the server who brought John his coffee was being kind. Even a stranger knows John wouldn’t have been able to make it to the counter after sitting down-- the thought makes him frown and shift in his seat with embarrassment.

More people walk by. Some come into the shop, some don’t. John watches them, but learns nothing from their gait or their clothes. Without _his_ voice in his ear, murmuring their secrets, all they are is people, passing a coffee shop on their way to or from god knows where.

He finishes his coffee, and slowly stands, ignoring the jacknife of pain that goes through his leg. He nods to the server behind the counter as he limps out. He steps out onto the pavement, and immediately feels battered by the tidal wave of cars and talking and shop music.

The whole way back to Harry’s, he’s surrounded by people. Even on her quiet street, a young boy is playing with a ball on the pavement.

But what’s the use of all of them, when the one person who made them interesting is gone?

\-----------

Harry is furious. She’s standing in the front hall when John walks in.

“How could you just leave without telling me?” she yells, breath smelling of beer and cigarette smoke.  

“I’m an adult, Harry,” John replies wearily, trying to step around her. She blocks his way. Anger sparks in John’s chest, bright and hot.

“You unstable idiot! I thought you’d gone missing. I cancelled my shift for you!” she continues.

John gestures to the half-full bottle perilously perched on top of the couch. “Looks like you were hoping for a reason to stay home,” he counters bitterly. “I’m fine.”

“Where have you been?”

“Out,” John growls and none-too-gently pushes past her. His duffel bag has been sitting, unpacked, on the floor by the couch for the past two weeks. He picks it up and slings it over his shoulder.

“And now you’re leaving again?” Harry demands.

“Yeah. I bloody am,” John says, twisting the doorknob and pulling the door open. “If it’s an emergency, you know my number. Otherwise, piss off.”

He expects her to throw the bottle as he walks away or yell again. Nothing happens. John walks away, and his sister doesn’t try to stop him.

\-----------

He walks for a bit, then catches a bus. He sits by a window and watches the streets go by. He doesn’t know where he’s going, or what he’s going to do now that he’s lost the use of Harry’s couch. Mrs Hudson would welcome him back, but Baker Street is not an option. That leaves a hotel - which he doubts he has the money for - or sleeping rough.

He’s considering getting off the bus and finding a pub when his phone vibrates with a text. He almost doesn’t read it— if it’s Harry, drunkenly reaching out, he doesn’t want to handle it. Still, his hand reaches into his pocket of its own accord and opens the text message.

It’s Sarah.

_Hi John. I know things are rough but I was wondering if you are interested in coming back to work? Have a dr on holiday and could use a replacement._

John tries to picture going to work at the clinic, helping people with their infections and colds and allergies. It sounds horrible.

He reads Sarah’s text again.

Still, it may be better than grasping for something to fill his day with. And he needs money; the balance in his bank account is perilously close to zero. He dials Sarah and waits as the line rings.

“John?”

“Hi, Sarah. I just got your text.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to reply so soon. I understand if you don’t feel ready to come back yet—”

“No, I—” John swallows. “I do want to come back. Need something to do with myself.”

“Of course. I can get the schedule to you by tonight, if that’s all right.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I, um. I also have a favor to ask you.”

“Anything, John.”

John takes a breath and pushes past his pride, just enough to force the question out. “Could I kip on your sofa? Just for a few days— my sister’s driven me round the bend.”

“Oh, John.” The cloying sympathy in her voice makes him wince. “Of course you can. I’ll be home around five, if you want to come round then.”

“Great,” John answers, injecting false enthusiasm into his voice. “Thank you so much, Sarah.”

“Not a problem. I’ve got to go now, John. See you this evening.”

“Yeah,” John says, and listens to her ring off.

\-----------

He rides the bus until half three and forcefully deserts any thoughts of pubs. Better to save his money.

\-----------

Sarah smiles, laughs at his weak jokes, but the evening falls flat; sometimes, he catches her looking at him sadly, then pretends he never saw it. She breaks out a bottle of red wine; he refuses any more after his glass with dinner. By ten they’ve run out of things to fill the silence with and Sarah calls it an early night.

“Work tomorrow, you know,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Right,” John nods.

“Goodnight, John.”

“Night, Sarah.”

She hovers, then finally disappears down the hallway to her bedroom. John stays up for a few hours, watching the telly on the lowest volume he can manage. Doctor Who, then some horrible old western.

He falls asleep like that, eyes slipping closed against the bright flare of the show.

\-----------

221b is warm. John is on the couch, Sherlock in John’s armchair. Firelight flickers over the room and Sherlock’s profile is thrown into shadow. John’s breath catches in his chest at the sight.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock turns to him, a small smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “John.”

John can see the whole of Sherlock’s face now. “No,” he whispers. “No, it can’t be—”

Sherlock shrugs, uncaring of the blood that’s dried on his cheek and the off-white bone that protrudes from his curls.

“It’s fine, John,” he says, grinning now. Some of his teeth are cracked, others are missing. His eyes are cloudy. “I can’t feel it.”

John’s stomach turns. He leans over the side of the couch, nearly retching, and—

\-----------

A hand on his shoulder wakes him up with a jerk.

“Sher—”

“Shh, John. It’s Sarah.”

John sits up and puts his head between his knees, gasping for air. “Oh god, oh god.”

Sarah’s hand rubs circles over his back as he panics. “You were talking in your sleep,” she tells him.

“Nightmare,” John bites out.

“Yes, I figured. Water?”

John nods his head and Sarah’s touch disappears as she goes into the kitchen. The sink turns on, and moments later she’s back with a glass. John grips it with both hands and ignores the fact that it still shakes as he brings it to his lips. The water is cool on his dry throat; he gratefully continues drinking and drains the glass.

“Thank you,” he says as he hands the glass back to Sarah.

She doesn’t say anything in reply, just takes the glass and brushes a hand across his shoulders as she walks away.

The rest of the morning is quiet as Sarah gets ready and leaves for work. John sits on the couch and stares at the blank telly screen, looking at his reflection and wondering how long it will take for the dreams to stop.

\-----------

He goes back to the coffee shop. It’s a longer walk from Sarah’s flat, but he doesn’t have the money for the tube or a cab, so he spends the better part of an hour finding his way back to the little place. The server from yesterday is there, John’s table by the window is open.

He collapses into the chair with a held-in sigh. He took two of the paracetamol from the bottle in Sarah’s medicine cabinet before he left, but his leg is still aching from the walk.

“Same as yesterday?” the server asks him from the counter.

“Please,” John answers.

The coffee is warm and just as good as the day before. John sips it, closes his eyes as the flavor bursts across his tongue, swallows, and waits for the taste to fade before taking another. It’s later, today, and the faces that pass by the window are all new to him, but the sheer number of them give him something to focus on other than the memory of Sher— _his_ face, crumpled in by the fall.

\-----------

Sarah doesn’t ask him how he spent his day when they sit down for dinner. She tells stories about patients at the surgery, and John listens halfheartedly as he picks at his food.

\-----------

He doesn’t sleep. He sits on Sarah’s couch, in the dark, and stares at the wall.

\-----------

He goes for a walk, just after Sarah starts the shower. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, but ends up standing in front of his best friend’s grave, vacantly staring at the black marble.

“Hello,” he says, faltering. The grass around the headstone is starting to wither; perhaps someone should water it. It must be dying because of the uncharacteristic heat the week before. Surely not _that_ many people visit the grave of a dead fake genius, to kill the grass like that.

“Course, you weren’t a fake,” John says out loud. “Don’t right care what the papers say, I...I knew. I knew you.”

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He wipes them away with a shaky breath and turns away.

It was a mistake, coming here.

\-----------

He opens the door to the coffeeshop just as a teenager rushes out, coffee in hand.

“Pardon,” he says, moving past John, and breaks into a jog down the pavement. John stares after him for a moment, surprised, then walks inside.

“That’s Larry,” the server says. Three days in a row, it must be a regular shift for them.

“He’s always in a hurry, that one,” the server continues. “Think he’s going to be late today, though.”

“Right,” John replies slowly.

“Coffee, dash of milk, no sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

The server smiles. “I’ll have it for you in a mo.”

John limps to his table - only three days in, and already he’s thinking of it as _his_ table - and settles in to wait.

\-----------

“Are you sure that you want to leave?” Sarah says. “You know I don’t mind you being here.”

John picks up his duffel bag. “I appreciate it, but I need my own space, and your couch is hell on my back.”

Sarah smiles. “Well. If you ever get tired of renting that little room at the boarding house, feel free to come by.”

“Yeah, course.”

Sarah’s hand on his wrist stops him mid-turn.

“Really, John. Stay in touch.”

John nods and smiles as he leaves.

\-----------

He starts up with work again. The surgery is dull and full of the same problems over and over again, but it’s work. He gets paid, and the nine hour days are enough to tire him out. When he goes to bed, sometimes he sleeps through the night.

He keeps to himself, mostly. Smiles when smiled at, chats when spoken to, but doesn’t much care to maintain many friendships. He’s there to work, to focus on the infections and the sprains and diseases, not bond.

Some coworkers whisper about him and the Moriarty scandal, when they think he can’t hear. He ignores them.

\-----------

The coffee shop becomes his grounding point. Every morning he comes in, sees the same people, orders the same coffee. He sits at the same corner window table and watches commuters and tourists make their way past.

He drinks his coffee and savours the bitter, milky taste of it. He takes his time, and never drinks it quickly. He thinks about the past - the cases, the adrenalin, the unresolved tension - and stares at the dregs at the bottom of his empty cup. Sometimes he reads the newspaper.

The coffee shop is there, always. Limp or no limp. On the days he wakes with his alarm, on the days he wakes at half four with a raw throat and the image of Sher— _him_ flying from the top of Bart’s. On the days that he’s not slept the night before, when the server gives him a top off without charge.

It’s the only bit of his routine that doesn’t feel like settling.

\-----------

He finds his own flat. The building is new, three storeys and painted an unassuming white. It’s close to the coffee shop, but still within walking distance of the surgery. The flat itself is small and dreary, barely furnished, but it has a hob for his kettle, a shower, and he coughs up enough money for a decent mattress, so there isn’t much to complain about. His neighbors don’t bother him (even if John can hear the ones in 207 having sex through the walls sometimes). The landlord is rarely around, and doesn’t care about the tenants when he is. It is completely unlike 221b. He tells himself he’s thankful for it.

\-----------

He doesn’t keep in touch with anyone from Before (excepting Sarah). Lestrade texts him a few times, and Mrs Hudson calls once a month, but John never responds.

\-----------

“Why don’t you ever talk about him?”

John looks up to find the new nurse standing in the doorway to his office. Mary, he thinks her name is.

“Sorry?” he frowns, processing her question.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she clarifies. “Why don’t you ever talk about him?”

It’s been almost six months since he last heard the name spoken aloud. It was the anniversary of his death; John had overheard a bit of a news broadcast from a store telly on the way to the coffee shop. He’d panicked, had hurried to the coffee shop and locked himself in the loo for five minutes, counting the seconds between his inhales and exhales.

The other nurses and doctors must have mentioned the name to Mary.

“I don’t think it’s any of your business,” John says firmly, ignoring the way his pulse has picked up.

Mary’s smile falters. “I--”

“Next patient?” he interrupts.

“Right,” she says, flustered, and hands him the file. “Kyle Jones.”

He takes it briskly. “Thank you,” he says, and turns in a clear dismissal.

Mary tries to talk to him a few times after. John is polite, but never stays in the conversation longer than he needs to. Sometimes, he wonders if there could have been something there, if their first words had been different. After all, she’s petite and blonde and always wears the kind of smile that makes you think she knows something you don’t: the type of woman he would have gone after.

He chastises himself for thinking about it at all, because if he’s learned anything in the past year and a half, it’s that living in hypotheticals is a pointless exercise.

\-----------

He still lives in the past, sometimes, but he doesn’t talk about it.

\-----------

“You were a complete arse.”

John is leaning back against the smooth marble of Sherlock’s headstone, breathing in the cool morning air. He doesn’t know why he came here, but it felt right, this morning.

“I know I said it plenty of times when you were around,” he continues, closing his eyes, “but you really were. The most abrasive man I knew.”

A bird chirps in a nearby tree.

“I still miss you. Two years, and I’m still waking up gasping your name. At this point, I could be the definition of ‘unhealthy mourner’.” His chuckle is humourless and sounds empty in the silence, but it releases some tension. He shakes his head.

“Figured it out, though,” he says as he stands and brushes grass off his trousers. “And damn you, Sherlock Holmes, for making me go and--” John stops, throat thick, and swallows. “Well. You know.”

He runs a hand over the chilled stone and quirks up his lips in a tight smile before he turns and walks away.

\-----------

“Good morning, John,” the server greets as he walks in the door.

“Morning,” John returns, and sits at his table. By the time he’s finished digging out the money for his coffee, the server has made up his cup and is setting it down on the table.

“Larry been in, yet?” he asks.

“Running late, as usual. You’d think that after a few years he’d be on time, but I guess some people just don’t work that way,” the server says fondly with a shake of their head. John spares a brief smile as the server takes the money and walks away.

There was a case they’d worked once. An old lady who’d lost her dog; Sherlock hadn’t wanted to take the case but she’d offered a ridiculously large sum of money and John had insisted they take it on. There had been grumbling and insults, but Sherlock had capitulated. As it turned out, there was more to the whole thing than a missing poodle, and a few chases later Sherlock had been grinning like a madman in the cab back home.

“Thank you, John,” he’d said. “Your frankly silly worry about finances has, for once, managed to be worth the trouble.”

John had rolled his eyes at the backhanded compliment, but his chest had lit up with pride. He’d done that-- he’d made Sherlock Holmes happy.

He’s so caught up in the memory and the coffee in his cup that he almost doesn’t notice someone sliding into the seat across from him. John looks up, a brusque, “excuse me” on his lips, and promptly loses his breath.

He’s skinnier, and paler, and he’s got a split lip, but it’s him. It’s _him_. Sherlock Holmes is sitting across the table from him, alive, with a spark in his eyes. John blinks, and he’s still there. Real, and breathing.

“Hello, John.”


End file.
